George the
Immigrant is what his descendants call George Haworth, the first Haworth in North America and my ancestor. This poem is partly based on his life.
We had a rough crossing: wild seas, fierce winds,
Killing cold; dark and foul drinking water,
Maggoty biscuit, months at sea. Many
Died: my own sister and brother-in-law
Slipped between the waves. At last, so
relieved
To beach on those ordinary stones, I
Fell down on my face in numbed exhaustion.
I walk across Indiana, south to
North, alone as I never thought to be.
There are few Friends here, and God's voice
is mute.
I am a willing worker, but stay in
Each place only a few days, rootless and
Unsettled. Where is my destiny, where
My home? For no horizon calls me now.
I move from
emptiness to emptiness.
Inside their white beauty, clouds are empty.
The earth itself is empty; my body,
In its time, will not fill it. I can fill
Nothing, being myself as empty as
The clouds, the earth, the sea which
swallowed my
Life into its vast echoing hunger.
© Larry Haworth 2017
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